Diamonds in the Shadow (25 page)

Victor wasted precious time going in the wrong direction on the wrong turnpikes in places called Pennsylvania and New Jersey. He wasted time sleeping and eating. He was down to only a few days. He used the stolen cell phone from the dead woman's purse to call the New York number. And this time, the dealer answered. Yes, he was in the city. Yes, he remembered the
fine diamonds Victor had shown him. Yes, he would pay Victor in cash.

They would meet, he said, at the clock at Grand Central Terminal. It was not safe to transfer gems and cash there. The station would be full of policemen and guards. They would go for a walk together and the transaction would occur elsewhere.

Victor assumed that in such a place he could kill the buyer, keep the diamonds and take the cash.

All he needed now were the diamonds.

On Saturday, donated furniture was rounded up and delivered to the Finches' house. Boxes of donated dishes and pots and microwaves were sorted; Americans always had some amazing extra thing they weren't using. Cleaning materials and canned goods were purchased. These were loaded into a borrowed van, which would sit in the driveway until moving day.

Alake had stayed out of the way. She clung to Jopsy. She prayed that Tay would never come, or that Mopsy would coax Mr. and Mrs. Finch to let Alake keep living here. But of course that was not going to happen, any more than Alake was going to erase her past.

Then it was Sunday, and Emmy Wall did come to church, making too many people for one pew. Mopsy, Mrs. Finch, Emmy Wall, Jared and Mr. Finch sat in a row. And so, for the first time, the four Amabos sat in a separate pew, as if they were a family.

Alake thought that the other three were a family. Mattu was
becoming a son to Celestine and Andre. They needed him, and he was proud and excited to be needed. And he was everything a son should be: tall, handsome, intelligent, athletic. They would form a family and make a home and share a life.

But they would not share it with Alake if they could help it. Celestine's real daughter had been murdered and Alake had been substituted. As if any mother could accept a substitution. At first she'd have to—Kirk Crick and the Finches would check on the Amabos. But they wouldn't check forever—or even for long.

The congregation sang a hymn. The melody was beautiful and the words were sad.

“Jesus walked this lonesome valley.

He had to walk it by himself.”

Alake was frightened by it. Walking by yourself was the worst punishment on earth. The last verse was even worse.

“You must go and stand your trial.

You must stand it by yourself.”

Surely the whole point of Christianity was that you did
not
have to stand your trial by yourself. God would be there. Why did they sing this horrible hymn that contradicted the Good News?

Because it's true, thought Alake. I have to stand my trial by myself. I have to live with people who hate me. I cannot keep my puppy. I have to walk alone.

Alake had listened so carefully to everything. How to fasten a seat belt. How to use double coupons, a credit card, a vending machine, a revolving door, the Internet.

But what good was any of it, if you had to walk alone?

Jared sat next to his dad on the not-soft-enough cushion of the pew and watched his father not listen and not pray.

Dr. Nickerson's announcements went on and on: a baptism, a wedding, names of the sick, crucial meetings and finally, the joyful news that an apartment had been found for the refugees.

We're all refugees, thought Jared. We all want a safe house. A place with strong walls between us and trouble. My father's two safe houses—home and church—stopped being safe. And now Mom is even making him sit in church with the wife of his enemy. How Christian and how annoying does it get? Jared began laughing silently. “I've decided I kind of like church,” he whispered to his father. “It's so crazy.”

Dad did not seem cheered by this revelation.

Theirs was not a family or a church that publicly embraced. Occasionally the order of service required people to offer each other the Peace of God. Everybody hated it. You were supposed to hug and get all friendly and everything, but shaking hands was the max for anybody here. Today Jared did something he had never done in church. He put his arm around his father's shoulder and pulled him in tight.

Dad's stiff spine relaxed. His tight shoulders sagged. His set jaw softened. He hugged back.

Jared could not help thinking of Alake, who was never hugged, and perhaps never would be—and who was about to lose the one creature she herself could hug.

They sang a mournful old folk song, not at all Dr. Nickerson's style. Probably some old person's request. It gave Jared a sick feeling, as if it forecast his future. He would walk alone in some lonesome valley.

“You must go and stand your trial.”

Mrs. Wall sobbed once, out loud, and caught herself.

Was the hymn about court trials, though? Or about everyday trials, like sharing your bedroom or finding diamonds in the ash?

“Nobody else can do it for you.”

His mother took Mrs. Wall's hand. She had the opposite slogan. Somebody else could always do it for you, or at least with you.

Jared whispered in his father's ear, “What do you bet Mom goes straight from giving refugees a home to escorting wives of felons to court?”

“I'll bet everything I have,” his father whispered back, laughing.

“Jesus tells us,” said the minister, “that if you have done a good thing for the least of his people, you have done it for him.”

I am the least, thought Alake. Every person in this church is better than I am.

Celestine and Andre and Mattu did not know exactly what Alake had done or how often or under what pressure, but it did not matter. She could not be part of the family they were going to make in this town called Norwich, and one day Mattu would put
Alake in his car and drive to some distant place, perhaps even the great void that was New York, open the door and tell her to get out. At the end of the service, the congregation sang a soft little song to say good-bye to each other.

Alake did not know what peace was. There had been none in her life. And faith? What was that? Nothing Alake possessed. But she had been given glimpses of love: the love of this family who had taken her in, the love of this church and the love of her puppy.

You have to walk it by yourself.

If I have Jopsy, thought Alake, I can walk anywhere. I have to walk now, before they take my puppy away from me.

In Africa, you could just keep walking and find others who were just walking, and with them, you could sleep by the side of the road and hope for rescue or death. But in America, that did not seem to happen. For Alake to vanish in America, she needed money.

I have a Social Security number, she thought. We all had to get one. Legally I'm too young to work, but at Celestine's job at that motel, half the girls in housekeeping didn't have papers or were too young. I can get a job somewhere and earn money someday. But to take care of Jopsy right now, I have to have money.

Diamonds are money.

M
ONDAY MORNING WAS AS CHAOTIC
and confusing as the first day of school, when none of the Amabos had known how to open the sealed carton of orange juice or why the phone rang. Alake held Jopsy tightly. If only she could be in somebody's arms, held this tightly. If only holding something tightly meant that you could actually keep it.

Because Celestine had the privilege of working extra hours that day, Mr. Finch was dropping her off early. They were already gone.

Mrs. Finch was taking Andre to some distant city called Boston for something called a second opinion. She was shouting questions: Did everybody have their homework? Did they have lunch money? Were their cell phones charged? Would Andre please hurry up and get in the car?

Then Mrs. Finch and Andre were gone, and it was Jared shouting. Did everybody have their book bag? We're late, Mattu! You didn't finish your toast, Mopsy. Carry it with you! Alake, put Jopsy in the kitchen and close the door.

The night before, Tay had telephoned Jared. Jared had yelled across the entire house to relay Tay's information to his mother.
“Tay's mom is getting the puppy in the morning,” bellowed Jared. “She says leave one of the garage doors up and put the puppy in the kitchen and don't lock the side door, and she'll go in through the garage and get the puppy.”

Alake was shattered. Mrs. Finch said, “Say good-bye to Jopsy tonight, Alake. I'm sorry this has to happen, but you've had the puppy such a short time that you won't really miss him. Be my brave girl now.”

I don't want to be brave. I want to have Jopsy. And you can love with all your heart even if you've only had your puppy a short time.

Alake had prayed all night long. Let me keep Jopsy, even though I couldn't keep my family or my home or my village or my two teachers or my sister. Please, God.

But here it was Monday morning, and the side door leading from the garage to the kitchen was unlocked and one of the big automatic garage doors was up. Sometime today, Tay's mother would drive into the driveway. She would go into the house, tuck Jopsy under her arm, turn the little knob in the handle to make the side door lock behind her and put Jopsy into her car. She would press the button inside the garage and quickly hop away before the huge heavy door lowered on her, and then she would drive off, leaving an empty house.

And for Alake, an empty heart.

Even Jesus had to walk his lonesome valley by himself. What was this lonesome valley? Was Alake already there? Was it life? Was it America?

“Alake,” said Jared, “we're late.
Go
down the hill with Mopsy.”

Alake was holding Jopsy tightly, but not tightly enough. Jared took her puppy away. Jopsy was going to be alone in this house. Nobody wants to be left alone, even puppies, Alake thought.